Fyodor Dostoevsky - Crime and Punishment: A New Translation

I

I n the beginning of July, during an extremely hot spell, toward evening, a young man left his tiny room, which he sublet from some tenants who lived in Stolyarnyi Lane, stepped out onto the street, and slowly, as if indecisively, set off towards the Kokushkin Bridge.

He had successfully managed to avoid meeting his landlady on the staircase. His small room, more like a closet than an apartment, was tucked under the roof of a tall five-story building. The landlady of the apartment, who rented him this room and provided both dinner and a servant, lived below in a separate apartment on the same staircase; every time he left to go out, he had to pass the landladys kitchen door, which was almost always left open onto the landing. Every time the young man passed, he felt a painful and fearful sensation, one that he was ashamed of and that made him wince. He was deeply in debt to the landlady and was afraid to face her.

It wasnt that he was so fearful and cowed; in fact, it was just the opposite; but for some time he had been in an irritable and anxious state, similar to hypochondria. He had become so absorbed in himself and so isolated from others that he was afraid of meeting anyone, not only his landlady. He was crushed by poverty, but even his constrained circumstances had ceased to burden him of late. He had completely stopped handling his own everyday affairs and didnt wish to deal with them. He was not actually afraid of his landlady, no matter what she intended to do to him. But to stop on the staircase, put up with all sorts of nonsense about ordinary rubbish that didnt concern him at all, her constant pestering about payment, her threats and complaints, and, in the face of it all, to have to dodge her, make excuses, tell liesno thank you; it was better to slip past somehow, like a cat on a staircase, and steal away unnoticed.

However, this time the fear of meeting his creditor surprised even him as he made his way out to the street.

What sort of feat am I about to attempt, yet at the same time Im afraid of such nonsense! he thought with a strange smile. Hmm... yes... everything lies in a mans hands, and still he lets it slip by, solely out of cowardice... thats an axiom.... It would be interesting to know what people fear the most. Most of all they fear taking a new step, uttering a new word of their own.... But Im babbling too much. Its because Im not doing anything that Im babbling. That may be the case: Im babbling because Im not doing anything. And its in the last month Ive learned to prattle, lying for days and nights in my corner, thinking about... once upon a time.... Well, why am I going out now? Can I really be capable of doing that? Is that really serious? No, its not serious at all. So, Im amusing myself for the sake of fantasy: games! Yes, thats it, games!

It was stiflingly hot outside; moreover, the stuffiness, the crush of people, lime plaster everywhere, scaffolding, bricks, dust, and that particular summer stench, so familiar to every Petersburg resident lacking the means to rent a summer dachaall this suddenly and offensively struck the young mans already distraught nerves. The unbearable stench of cheap taverns, which were particularly numerous in this part of the city, and the drunkards encountered constantly, despite its being a weekday, completed the repulsive and grim scene. For a moment, a feeling of the deepest loathing flashed across the young mans delicate features. Incidentally, he was remarkably handsome, with splendid dark eyes and dark brown hair; he was taller than average, slender, and well built. But soon he seemed to slip into profound pensiveness, even, it would be more accurate to say, into a state of oblivion. He walked along not noticing his surroundings, not even wanting to take notice of them. From time to time he merely muttered something to himself, from his penchant for monologues, which he immediately acknowledged to himself. At that moment he himself was aware that at times his thoughts were confused and that he was feeling very weak: it was the second day hed eaten hardly anything at all.

He was so poorly dressed that someone else, even someone used to seeing such, would be ashamed to appear on the street during the day wearing such ragged clothes. However, the district was one where it was difficult to shock anyone with ones apparel. The proximity of the Haymarket, the abundance of certain establishments, and, primarily, the population of tradesmen and craftsmen, all crowded into these streets and lanes of central Petersburg, sometimes filled the general panorama with such subjects that it would be strange to be surprised at all on meeting another such figure. But so much malicious contempt had already accumulated in the young mans soul that, in spite of all his own sometimes very immature squeamishness, when he was out on the street he was not in the least embarrassed by his tattered clothes. It was another matter altogether when he met some of his acquaintances or former comrades, whom, in general, he didnt much like seeing.... However, when one drunkard, who for some unknown reason was being transported somewhere along the street in an enormous cart harnessed to a huge dray horse, suddenly shouted to him, in passing, Hey, you, you German hatmaker! and roared as loud as he could, pointing his finger at himthe young man suddenly stopped and violently grabbed his own hat. It was a tall, round top hat bought at Zimmermans shop, but already worn out, and now of a completely faded reddish-brown color, with many holes and stains, lacking a brim, and leaning to one side at a most unattractive angle. However, it was not shame that seized him but a completely different feeling, more resembling fear.

I knew it! he muttered in confusion. Thats exactly what I thought! This is the most disgraceful part! Its just this kind of foolish thing, a really trivial detail that can spoil the whole plan! Yes, a hat thats too noticeable.... Its funny-looking, and therefore noticeable.... With my tattered clothes I really need a peaked cap, even an old one, flat as a pancake, not this monstrosity. No one wears hats like this; it can be recognized a mile away and remembered... thats the main thing, remembered afterward, and theres your evidence. One has to be as inconspicuous as possible.... Details, details are the main thing! Its the details that always ruin everything...

He had only a little way to go; he even knew exactly how many paces it was from the gate of his own building: seven hundred and thirty. Once, when entirely lost in his daydreams, hed happened to count them. At the time he himself still didnt believe in his dreams and was merely irritating himself with their repugnant, though seductive audacity. Now, however, a month later, hed begun to regard them in a different light, and in spite of all his mocking monologues about his own powerlessness and indecisiveness, hed grown accustomed, even against his will, to considering this repulsive dream something of a feat, although he still didnt believe in it himself. Now he was even on his way to carry out a trial run of his endeavor; with every step his agitation grew stronger and stronger.

With a sinking heart and nervous trembling, he approached an immense building, one wall of which opened onto a narrow canal, the other onto Sadovaya Street. This building consisted of small apartments inhabited by all sorts of tradesmentailors, locksmiths, cooks, various Germans, streetwalkers, low-ranking civil servants, and others. People entering and leaving the building kept darting under both gates and across both courtyards. Three or four doormen worked there. The young man was very pleased when he didnt encounter any of them and managed to slip unnoticed right through the gates and directly onto the staircase. The staircase was dark and narrow, a back entrance, but he knew that already, having studied it, and he liked this whole setting: in such darkness even casting a curious glance wouldnt be dangerous. If Im so afraid now, what would happen if I somehow managed to commit the actual